Story Snippets
by DireSphinx
Summary: For even a rose that will never bloom is beautiful in its own right. A collection of stories that will never be.
1. London Grieving

_I've been playing with an idea storage locker for a while, where I can stick all the little pieces of stories I've half-way written and never finished and finally decided to stick them here. They're the ideas I like, but have lost the steam or nerve to complete for one reason or another. So instead I present these drabbles as they are for your viewing pleasure. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

_**Backstory:**_

_This is an idea that jun-chan and I have been playing around with for a while. It revolves around the idea of Kaito as an evil, serial killer Phantom of the Opera sending notes to his love interest Aoko written by his victims in their own blood, and of course our Detective Boys are on the case. The drabble below came about in our messaging when she asked me if she could kill Ran. I had to reply no and explain my theory that if she killed Ran, Shinichi would go AWOL. I tried to convince her to kill Hakuba instead - no one mourns the British anyways, but I don't think she fell for it. Anyways, here's the little drabble her question inspired._

* * *

He staggers into the room, listing to one side. A half-empty bottle of brandy swings from one hand as the other gropes for a matchstick. Striking the piece of wood against the desk, a flicker of flame briefly illuminates the haunting eyes of a drowning soul. Shakily, an oil lantern is lit, and light hesitantly spreads across the shelves, leather bound tomes waiting for eager hands.

Those hands that grasp eagerly no more.

Brandy is chugged in great heaving gulps, a stream of fire desperate to consume all. If only he could be so lucky. He collapses into a chair, mindless of the grime staining his greatcoat. It's not like she's around anymore to criticize. He swigs another drink to erase the traitorous thought.

It's been two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks searching, scrambling, digging for clues, only to smack against a brick wall of silence. No one knows anything. No one's saying anything. No one's doing anything. Well, that's not entirely correct. The damn bastard's still killing others, and he's stuck running around in circles. He needs a clue, he needs a break. He needs his wife back.

Ran.

He remembers the telegram. _"Lord Kudo, you are needed down at police headquarters. He's struck again. We're sorry."_ The lump of terror settling in his soul with those last two words. We're sorry. We're sorry. We're sorry.

Aren't we all sorry?

He finally understands what drives men to murder. Looking down at Ran's face, the tears that still glistened upon her cheeks, the fading warmth of her body, her chestnut locks hacked off here and there in some macabre mange - oh, he understands. And when he meets up with that bastard, he'll make sure he knows as well. Kudo fingers the dagger at his hip with his free hand, lost in his haze, the empty hole where his heart should be.

Guess that makes him the same as all the other victims. He had to bury Ran without her heart - he'll bury this bastard without his too. Kudo drains the bottle and shatters it against the walls. He'll kill this bastard if it's the last thing he'll do.

* * *

_Jun-chan makes for a great living muse. Just saying._


	2. Smutty HaHa

_Hello, lovely ladies and gentlemen. Sorry for my negligence. Life has certainly seen fit to keep me on the edges of my sanity. But you're not here to hear about the utter rampage that has been my life these last few months. You're here for the words typed by my monkeys that somehow coalesce into some rather strange fics. This is one of them._

_A word of caution to this tale. If crack disturbs you, do not read further. If suggestive situations disturb you, do not read further. If you cannot take a joke (HaHa), do not read further. If you are too young to be reading **M-rated** material, do not read further. If not, then please please proceed, as our two young detectives do their dastardly deed._

* * *

Caramel fingers delve amongst amber strands, dragging him closer, closer. Rosebud and teak lips collide, suckling, biting, engulfing one another in the age old battle of submission and domination. Soft moans issue from glistening lips as pianist hands run up and down, over cotton thread and subtle muscles, hardened from years of kendo training. It's a long, drawn out process that leaves the dark-skinned boy both hot and cold with unbridled desire. Those long, ivory fingers easily divest him of his school shirt, gliding over toned flesh with all the finesse of a virtuoso at a violin. He plays a symphony upon this living instrument, a da niente across sculpted abs, a marcato of nails along a quivering spine, the grand crescendo of tongue and teeth against begging nipples, leaving the boy/man an incoherent gibbering mess of _more, please, God, again_. He can't help but hiss in pleasure as that lascivious tongue trails over areas those luring, alluring hands have abandoned. It's almost enough to send him over the edge, but that damning smirk of pearl perfection knows just how far to press, and no farther. He's left teetering on the brink. _Damn Brit_.

Ah, but this gaijin is not finished with his games. A swirl of teeth and tongue with a subtle flick of fingers has the brash one moaning out to the heavens. He's helpless against this onslaught, that mocking mouth teasing every nook and cranny of skin and scars, delving down, sliding across, scraping teeth on hardened buds. Those hands, wondrous glorious hands, pin the other down, preventing him from escape, or equal retribution. This porcelain prodigy proves his meticulous reputation with every nibble and bite, moan and groan, and _Oh God, don't stop!_ It's almost like a game, a race, a god-damned mystery of pleasure, discovering every weak point in his lover's armor, his high points, his moan points, what leaves him breathless in a haze of white hot overload. And there's always some new technique to try, a million and one ways to achieve his end. So much to explore, so little time...

The Osakajin, on the other hand, is left to weather the storm. He's caught up in a maelstrom, a swirling vortex of pleasure threatening to pull him out from under. It's not a question of how to escape, it's merely how long can he survive the onslaught. Because honestly, he'd rather drown than be left high and dry, in multiple senses of the word. And that annoying, insufferable Brit, laying hickeys up and down his chest, his neck, elsewhere, a checkerboard of ownership _(-he's **Mine**-),_ on his person is merely adding fuel to the fire in his loins. He's more than ready to ignite.

Another suck, another drawn out gasp, before the blond moves his attention downwards. Perhaps reading the other detective's mind, he slowly draws his tongue down the boy's chest, stomach, flicking out every now and then to be a bloody tease. At the waistband, he glances up into his lover's eyes, darkened amber awash in a sea of desire as his teeth tug the button of his trousers free. Emerald eyes gaze on in riveting suspense as those same teeth latch onto his zipper, pulling it down in a slow, obscene show of skill. The click of each tooth pulling free from confinement is almost maddening in the wait. His erection is not long in burgeoning forth.

Thankfully for the hot-tempered youth, his Holmes otaku is not long in answering his unspoken desires. Flush pink lips brush lightly across the swollen tip before a darkened tongue sneaks out for a quick taste. A hand slowly makes its ways downwards, releasing the boy as long fingers delve past almost ebony strands to wrap around his cock. The mouth moves closer, lips parting to slowly, slowly, oh so maddeningly slowly encompass the boy. That tricky tongue slides along from tip to stern, drawing forth more than mere moans and breathy sighs. An electric jolt of desire rams the teased in his tracks. He needs more. Now. Luckily, the blonde is eager to please.

He starts off slow; just a mere flick of the tongue and a duck of the head, but the Detective of the West will have none of that. Uttering dire promises of pain and torture if he doesn't stop being a bloody tease, the thick-headed Osakajin is able to coerce his tormentor into a faster tempo. He's soon gasping in pleasure as the blonde slides and bobs, bobs and slides, up and down, twirl it around, tongue performing acrobatics he could only imagine in his dreams. Its slick and heavy, achingly perfect as that pouty mouth teases him over and over, clever tongue keeping him from release. He's hard, so hard, muttering and begging, harsh gasps and entreaties to a higher power gushing from fevered lips. Greedy fingers delivering a death grip to ashy strands as he strains closer and closer to release.

Amber eyes latch onto green, silently mocking and enjoying the Osakajin's plight. With a final twist of the tongue and a desperate suck, the Ellery Queen lover loses all coherence of the natural world. He's adrift in a sea of pleasure, that magnificent mouth rolling him along every wondrous wave. When he finally comes to shore, the ivory boy smirks victorious. Well, that simply won't do. A voice rough as sex, smooth as sin breaks past parched, hungry lips. _"Is that the best you can do?"  
_  
An eyebrow rises. The smirk turns feral. In a near perfect mimicry of seduction he snarks a reply. _"Perhaps I'd best demonstrate how we do things on the other side of the pond."_ With that said, he inches upwards, fingers already performing their voodoo magic as that wicked mouth makes a beeline for his own. Before they crash, one last comment sneaks its way past teak lips in a husky promise.

_"Yeah, perhaps ya should."_

* * *

_Oh look, I have another apology to write to Heiji. But should I write one for Saguru? I bet this is the first time he's ever gotten to be seme - that's gotta count for something._

_If I haven't broken your brain just yet, or given you an incurable case of the giggles please, tell me what you think. It's my first attempt at smut, after all. I'd like to know if it fits the parameters..._


	3. Earl Grey

_I've been wanting to write angst, and the weather agreed with my wishes. There's nothing like the half-shadow of grey twilight to put one in a somber state of mind. And the teacup on my windowsill half full of forgotten jewelry made for good inspiration._

* * *

A cup of Earl Grey cools upon the windowsill. Steam wafts only slowly from the chestnut liquid, dying like breath in winter as it rises above its station only to be stolen away like time in a bottle. The white china cup it resides within stands tall and immovable, a hint of pride and near-forgotten chivalry gleam within its glaze. There's no etching along its rim, no subtle flair upon the ivory handle to distinguish this cup from the multitudes of white china cups that exist throughout the world.

Perhaps that's the very reason why he chose such a vessel for his chosen brew. There is nothing remarkable about this mug, nothing out of the ordinary - mayhaps making it extraordinary in his eyes. Nothing is ever what it seems. Not even a simple china cup. He had learned that lesson well enough.

There were 642 reasons he could have extrapolated upon as to the chosen color choice of his drink container, only 487 of which revolved around a certain manic magician in the moonlight. The rest of the reasons were rather fanciful, and not worth thinking upon. They existed, but were not important in the overall scheme of things. At least, that was his excuse. It's a fitting vessel no matter which reason and thus it was granted the privilege of being his tea holder.

The choice in Earl Grey is an easy enough matter to justify. It's a simple tea, black, with a hint of oil of bergamot to enhance the taste and entice the senses. There's a boldness to the brew that most green teas lack, and the color drew him back to the hardwood floors of his youth. Furthermore, it smelt like _Home_, and that's all the real reason he needed to give.

The tea had seeped in a clay fired teapot downstairs before being poured into this particular white china cup. The rest of the tea unfortunate enough to have been left behind still waits like a wistful lover on a warming rack by the hearth. It may be drunk before the night is over; it may not. Either way it stands ready should it be called upon.

To this particular cup of tea that rests on a lonely windowsill, said cup tempered with warm water before being granted the privilege of bearing the amber ambrosia of choice, was added a dash of milk. More than a pinch but less than a splash. Enough to cloud the liquid and reduce its clarity of color from mahogany to pine. And perhaps soften the sharpness to a more palatable consistency. At least, that's the reason he would have provided.

Once properly prepared, this cup of fine vintage Earl Grey was carried up a flight of stairs, past the two bedrooms on the left and deposited upon a desk in the study, carefully out of the way of the case files cluttering the wide expanse of cherry wood and leather trim. Said files, spanning a time frame of days, months, years, 47 countries and five continents, no two alike but for the gleeful grin topping every page, were spread chaotic upon the expanse, organized in a hand no sane man would recognize. Unless said sane man were to have jumbled them intentionally, whether in frustration or despair is anyone's guess. The drying watermarks littering the sheets nearest the leather wing-back chair would suggest the latter.

The tea cup, oblivious to its surroundings, sent forth merry puffs of steam into the literary oasis. It had no reason to do otherwise. Soon enough the pale boy for whom this tea had been prepared lifted the ordinary cup from its ordinary saucer. But instead of partaking in this carefully crafted delight, he merely cradled the china in cold hands, staring into the liquid as if it could unfold all the answers in the universe. What the boy saw, the cup could not say. It's not in the place of beverages to reflect upon their reflections. Even if said reflections wobbled in the wake of shaking hands and the lone introduction of one salty tear to their contents. They are built to contain, and that is what this cup does.

This cup of Earl Grey sat in the hands of the man-child, for no boy should hold such hollowed eyes, warming cold fingers that leeched its heat away like so much dust in the wind. There were no words spoken, no sips enjoyed, just one individual gazing into his tea. The second hand on the grandfather clock residing on the mantle spun round and round the numbered face, circles and circles of time that ceased to exist, ceased to turn the other way and reorder reality to before the chaos. To before his whole world came shattering down.

He finally placed the cup on the windowsill, a red smear of _something_ marring its pristine visage. The cup thought nothing of this predicament for cups have no thoughts, and sat waiting solemnly, coldly, emotionless. Much as the lad wished he could be. But cups of tea know not the wishes of men, especially men who have had to grow up too fast, who have seen too much, witnessed too much, watched their love die right before their eyes in a sickening scarlet array without a chance to do anything but cradle the broken body. Cradle the body of a ghost gone before his time, before he had a chance to catch him, to kiss him, to convince him of his sincerity. Before he had a chance at happiness. No, cups of tea know not the wishes of men, nor of heartbreak. Nor of the path grief leaves in its wake. And the opportunities it provides.

The common china teacup sits forgotten on the windowsill, Earl Grey ever so slowly growing cold. It noticed not its intended owner departing, not the note left sprawled among the papers, the tears that streamed down the male's face, the whispered promise _"I'll see you soon."_ The gunshot going off in the bathroom next door. It sits, and it waits, steadily growing colder as paramedics pull the zipper up on a body on the other side of the wall. A body that is steadily growing colder like the cup of Earl Grey perched upon the windowsill.

* * *

_...Yeah. Make of this what you will._


	4. Haiku

_Oh wow, I'm posting two days in a row. Let's see if I can keep this up till my birthday at the end of the week. (Gonna have to whip those plunnies into shape if I want that to occur...anybody got a leather whip I can borrow?)_

* * *

**Gin and Vodka**

They swallow poison

Mixtures of barley and rye

Homage to their names

**Shinichi**

He plays with his toys

Dynamite disguised to fool

Bastards that follow

**Mouri**

A flip of a switch

A dart flying fast unseen

Struck, Mouri stumbles

**Heiji**

The mystery solved

Heiji straightens his white cap

As he reveals all

**Kazuha**

Omamori on

She walks out the door ready

To take on the world

**Ran**

Sighing at her phone

A wistful lover waits for

Her baka to call

**Akako**

The tears she can't cry

Barrier to her damned soul

Wait to be unleashed

**Haibara**

Test tubes burning bright

The night waxes on silent

Specter to her work

**Vermouth**

Chess pieces moving

She smiles at the Chaos

Her actions have wrought

**Aoko**

She cries at the truth

Salty tears stinging sharp as

A playing card's edge

**Kaito**

Laughing on the wind

Gem bleeding in the moonlight

He's found Redemption

**Hakuba**

Chasing down a thief

That contradiction in white

He'll never give up

**Snake**

Trigger finger taut

Snake smiles through the sniper's scope

_"Ladies and Gentle-"_

...

_Goodbye Toichi_

* * *

_And yes, I realize the last poem is not technically a haiku, but I loved the final line too much to leave it out._


	5. 100 Words

_The man has decided to put me down today. Sigh...now I'll have to go find another job to pay the rent. I needed a pick me up, so here you go. Personal challenge to myself to see if I could write a scene in only 100 words and exactly 100 words.  
_

* * *

_Ooh, I can't believe I'm doing this. I really, really can't believe I'm doing this. Why am I doing this again?_

_..._

_  
Oh yeah, Kaito._

_Stupid, idiotic, suicidal, **Kaitou**-friggin-**Kid!** Kaito. He'd damn well better appreciate what I'm about to do. _

Voices murmur outside her hiding space as she tugs on her tie. She perspires under the cloying rubber mask.

_Kaito, I'm so gonna kick your ass when you get out of the hospital._

_Be afraid. Be very afraid._

A glance down at her watch. Five seconds left.

_Eeeek! I can't believe I'm doing this! Tou-san forgive me._

_**BOOM!**  
_

"Ladies and Gentlemen!"_  
_

* * *

_If you have any surefire ways to cheer up this forlorn girl, please feel free to let me know.  
_


	6. Girl with a Mop

_ME 310 lecture is the most boring class EVER. See what I write to entertain myself?_

* * *

_**Girl with a Mop**_

One girl with a mop  
was trying to stop  
the antics of a Phantom Thief.  
She swung at his head  
but he ducked down instead  
and flipped her skirt for a peek.

* * *

_Oh, how the mighty have fallen..._


	7. Detective's Prayer

I discovered The Lord's Prayer to Canada the other day. That's all I really need to say.

* * *

**_The Detective's Prayer to DC_**

Our Detective, who art in Tokyo,

Edogawa be thy name.

Thy murderers comes,

Yet deductions are won,

In Beika as well as Osaka.

Give us this day our mysteries,

And forgive us our screaming,

As we forgive Conan the bodies falling around us.

And lead us not into the Organization,

But deliver us the APTX antidote.

In the name of the Dead,

And the Shrunken,

And the Hallowed _One Truth_,

Forever and Ever.

AMEN


End file.
